“How come?”

“No civilians allowed on VIP Road—here, this one, that runs on across the river to Potsdam.”

“Come on. I’ll need a boat, then.”

“Ha! You expect improvisation from a German? No, no, that’s—that’s Rocketman’s problem! ha-ha!”

“Unnhh.” Seems the villa fronts on the Griebnitz See. “Why don’t I hit it from that side?”

“You’ll have to go under a couple of bridges first, if you do. Heavily guarded. Plunging fire. Maybe—maybe even mortars. It gets very narrow opposite Potsdam. You won’t have a chance.” Oh, German humor’s a fine way to start the morning. Säure hands Slothrop an AGO card, a trip ticket, and a pass printed in English and Russian. “The man who forged these has been in and out of Potsdam on them a dozen times since the Conference began. That’s how much faith he has in them. The bilingual pass is special, just for the Conference. But you mustn’t spend time gawking like a tourist, asking celebrities for autographs—”

“Well say look Emil, if you’ve got one of these and they’re so good, why don’t you go?”

“It’s not my specialty. I stick to dealing. Just an old bottle of acid—and even that’s make-believe. Buccaneering is for Rocketmen.”

“Bodine, then.”

“He’s already on his way back to Cuxhaven. Won’t he be upset, when he comes back next week, only to find that Rocketman, of all people, has shown the white feather.”

“Oh.” Shit. Slothrop stares awhile at that map, then tries to memorize it. He puts on his boots, groaning. He bundles his helmet in that cape, and the two, conner and connee, set out through the American sector.

Mare’s-tails are out seething across the blue sky, but down here the Berliner Luft hangs still, with the odor of death inescapable. Thousands of corpses fallen back in the spring still lie underneath these mountains of debris, yellow mountains, red and yellow and pale.